Great Art Of Being Thrown Statistics, The

The guy who invited me to sit here is enigmatic mixture of slime and well-meaning. His skin is the color of cocoa but I feel like he must be Mexican for the simple reason that, let’s face it, statistics make it likely. His voice is laid back, promising, and I do not trust it.

"Are you just going to sit there and do work or what?" he asks, a few chairs away from me in the vast land of the school cafeteria. My notebook is open. I scribble.

"If they let me."

"If they ask you if you have your papers, just tell them you turned them in, that Mr. L has them,” he says. Then: “I got your back."

I didn't turn in the permission forms needed to see this presentation. I was handed forms and expected to sign them. These forms were not explained to me and made it clear as mud that the material could be a) scarring or b) kill me.

Well, thanks.

The presentation has started. We are being given the beauty of AWARENESS regarding teenage drunk driving. AWARENESS is important, and I tell you: we are positively riveted. The group beside me passes around a pack of gum and, if I'm honest with you, the only perk in this situation remains that a really cute guy from my advisory class is within eyeshot.

"The worst thing that can happen," says a trauma nurse on-screen, "is that he could go brain dead and die from this injury."

Blood is gushing from a hole in a boy's head as another nurse talks him through how many drinks he usually has.

He only had three drinks, he swears!

I really shouldn't be allowed to make commentary on this. I mean, I don't have forms or anything.

Every few minutes, though, I feel like crying. I am not completely immune to this HBO special on AWARENESS. I am not immune to that which is being pressed against me, not completely, though I do appreciate the fact that a neurologist has referred to a head injury causing the brain to "pooch out."

I love learning new things.

Cute guy has donned a jacket now. I do not know his name. Have you ever tried to find someone one Facebook when you don't know their name?

Ahem. Me neither. I did not spend thirty minutes of my life searching through The Boy With The Underpants' six hundred friends for his existence.

But just that idea--well, I thought it might amuse you. You're welcome.

I feel like I am over this bout of AWARENESS. There is blood and sadness and ruined lives—and oh, it's over.

Okay. Thank you, HBO special.

A few scatter as we are given a bathroom break. The Boy With The Underpants walks past on his way to be facilities, boxers (purple plaid) peeking slightly out of his Bermuda shorts.

I am not making this up.

The announcer pronounces documentary as "dock-you-meant-airy" and sprinkles us with Consequences, all the while mispronouncing our town's name. I am amused.

LOOK AT ALL THE AWESOME DEATH JUST LIKE ME!

"We don't have to show movies like this to my kids," she says, "because they have experienced it firsthand."

They probably mean well.

A retired police officer gives a presentation on nefarious groups. He's "tatted out" and seems okay enough, only now he is telling us about how gangs might kill us and I really don't want to be killed by gangs please thank you--how will I sleep at night?

He educates us on various tattoos now and I quietly fear for my life. This is why I do not watch the news. Duty shirker I may be, but I feel that if I did this I would never leave the house again. Priorities.

The other grades are taking ever-important benchmarks this week. They have to keep us seniors around or else Break The Law And Lose Money, so now we are being educated in various ways. I am disgruntled.

"The crime stats in this area are great," the officer says. "This is why it is up to you guys to be safe. It's up to you."

The presenters trying to decipher YouTube and give up, making d0.

"They're not just going to kill you, they're going to kill your family." A dead woman and baby flash onscreen.

I didn't sign my forms! Why do they have me in here?

Like, dude.

That felt appropriate.

Sexting is brought up by Announcer Lady. She waves her purple Blackberry around to prove her points. With a winning “Nothing is ever deleted!” my peers begin buzzing as if this had never before occurred to them—QUICK, WE NEED TO DELETE STUFF FROM OUR PHONES.

Maybe it’s the fact that I don't get the concept of secrets. Maybe it's that I am a horrible person who judges her peers harshly. But really?

I wouldn't be thrilled if my peers read this blog, I'll give you that much. But am I lying? My conceptions are just that, mine, and I am painfully aware how fractured some of them have been in the past. I hope to be right, but I am stumbling. I will stumble. This is all I can do.

The presentation ends without a bang and students begin to disperse. My advisory teacher stops for a moment as he passes by.

"What are you doing, writing a book?" he asks. He wears suspenders and a smile framing sincere eyes. He has an accent I can’t place.

"Sort of."